Hunter Of Stars
by Abbitte
Summary: It's the 16th of July in the year of 1969. In the oval office of the White House John F. Kennedy is preparing his speech, in Cape Canaveral Apollo 11 is departing with a bang and a blast and in a small room in the capital of Great Britain, John Watson's life is changed forever. John's a nerd, Sherlock's cool, science is changed and space discovered.


John Watson is a small, frail boy. Too small for his age, too weak to compete with the boys in his class, and, as if to make it all just a tad worse, too smart to be accepted by the kids everybody considers cool. And then there's Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock's the epitome of coolness, the very symbol of everything John Watson isn't. He owns a motorbike, he owns the hearts (and the innocence, left on the backseat of his father's mustang) of the beautiful girls in school, and he owns the very world of John Watson.

If you'd ask anybody from his class, they'd answer John Hamish Watson is 17 years old, boring and an utter loser, and if you'd ask Sherlock, he'd say they're right. That's what John has always thought anyway.

John's sitting on his bed, studying for his next biology test. If he fails, he's dead. Not literally, of course, but he'd be dead in the second-worst meaning of the word. His parents would be disappointed and his dreams would vanish with a bang. He needs straight A's to enrol in med school. So he tells himself this is important, this is what his life lead to. This test is everything. He's an extraordinary student, top of his class and he's not planning on giving that up. But every time he stops reading, even if it's just for a split-second, his mind is immediately transported to the events earlier that day. His lips are still tingling and his mind is still fuzzy with surprise and shock. Sherlock Holmes kissed him. Sherlock Holmes kissed _him_ and pressed _his _back against the lockers of the changing room. Sherlock Holmes kissed him and shifted the very centre of his world. Now everything revolves around the dark-haired, mysterious boy that showed him passion in the place he hated the most. John lays down the book, there's no way he'll be able to concentrate anyway.

The next time they kiss, it's just as the first time. Sherlock presses John against the wall, his broad chest pressing against John's. His lips pressing against the smaller boy's and his hands on his waist. All John feels is butterflies and electric jolts and _want_. He wants more. He wants so much more.

John's a smart boy, he knows everything about astronomy. About the planets orbiting around the sun, about the way they spin around their own axes. He knows about the eternity of the universe and the big bang and the way the sun is going to kill them all some day. He knows about black holes and about supernovae. But one boy, one ridiculous, impossible boy has changed it all. One kiss redefined his view on the world and his understanding of the way it works. And now he finds himself on his bed, trying to concentrate on an article about the moon mission when all he wonders about is how Sherlock rearranged the planets and the stars, how he showed him the moon and the sun at the same time. How he made hypernovae explode underneath his skin (they're the most destructive force in the universe, John thinks, and the ones that exploded within him, right beneath his heart took him down with all their might) and how he stopped time for a split-second. A split-second filled with red-blooded passion and fiery, all-consuming need.

He's in Sherlock's room and if there's a place John thought he would never find himself in it would be this very room. This small room, filled with posters of Led Zeppelin and The Beatles and The Rolling Stones. On this bed, in Sherlock's arms. His lips on his neck while Elvis is singing in the background. Sherlock nips and bites and sucks at his neck and kisses him desperate. And John knows, John knows for sure, that this is the moment in which Sherlock has just become the very symbol of everything he wants.

John knows physics, he knows how, and that's a fundamental rule, nothing can touch each other on the atomic level. And if he's honest, it's bothering him. Because that's exactly what Sherlock did. Sherlock changed his very understanding of something so simple. Of something so sure. Sherlock touched his atoms and stirred them up, causing his electrons to drift. Binding him to Sherlock in a physical, chemical bound.

The first time Sherlock visits him it's awkward. It's awkward and pretty humiliating because John's room is nowhere near as cool as Sherlock's. His walls are plastered with posters of the solar system, with mathematical formulas and pictures on human anatomy. Sherlock doesn't comment it, he just gestures John to sit down next to him on the bed and kisses him. He kisses him and shows the boy that he doesn't care. He doesn't care if John is too busy with studying to go out. He doesn't care if John's only interests are science and space programs.

John knows about biology. He knows about the 204 bones that make up the human body; he can name them all. He knows about the muscles and the sinews and the vital organs. He knows about the heart and the veins and the nervous system. That's what he thought before. Now, afterwards, if John thinks logically he knows that there's no possibility of touching someone's heart. All you can touch is skin. But Sherlock touched him in a way that goes so much deeper. He touched his bones and set them on fire, he touched his heart and burned it down. His touch was pure fire and heat and it electrified his senses to the point where all he could feel was a desperate need for _more_.

John is staring at the television when the doorbell rings and he hesitantly stands up. He doesn't want to tear his eyes away from the small screen. He's been sitting there for so long, staring at the rocket. At the spaceship. Watched the astronauts talking to the camera. He's excited, excited and a little bit jealous. What he would give to trade places with one of them. He can only imagine what space would be like. To him it means freedom and science and knowledge.

As he opens the door he sees Sherlock standing there, his hair is slicked back and the cigarette is hanging from his mouth. After one last drag he throws it on the ground, ever so carelessly.

"Can I come in?" It's a useless question, because Sherlock already knows the answer. John nods and gestures Sherlock to come with him, to his room.

They sit down on the bed, looking at each other. In the background he can hear the reporter saying something about how dangerous this mission is. He grins, Sherlock grins. And before his mind can grasp what happens Sherlock's mouth is all over his, his weight pinning him down onto the bed. Sherlock tastes good. He had never thought he would say something like that, but it's true. He tastes like cigarettes and passion and danger; reminding him of the colour red. And as he feels Sherlock's hands sneaking underneath his shirt, caressing the soft skin, he moans. He can feel Sherlock's smile against his lips, and in a moment of fearless lust, he bites down. Sherlock groans in response and his grip tightens and as their hips shift together he can feel the other man's erection against his own. And he wants, oh he _wants._ But there's no way that he can bring that thought to life, there's no way he can say it out loud.

There's no need for that. Sherlock's hand slowly moves downwards, strokes his lower abdomen, playing with the soft hairs below his navel. His other hand is working on the buttons of his jeans.

John's breath hitches and dies in his throat as Sherlock strokes his erection through his pants. And it's terrifying because it feels better than everything else John has ever experienced and it's so much.

Sherlock slips his hand inside and starts stroking, grip tight and experienced. Slowly at first, speed increasing steadily as if the moans that roll off John's lips encourage him.

In the background John can hear the countdown.

_10._

He kisses Sherlock with all his might, bucking his hips upwards.

_9._

His senses are going in overload and all he can do is moan Sherlock's name in the other man's ear.

_8._

His grip is tightening and he wants more. So much more.

_7._

_6._

_5._

He's close. He's so close and for a moment, a brief, short moment, he's terrified by the reaction the other boy provokes inside of him.

_4._

"Sherlock," he gasps, eyes shut. Hands trembling.

_3._

Sherlock kisses him again, reassuring him. Helping him to let go.

_2._

_1._

And he does.

It's the 16th of July in the year of 1969.  
In the oval office of the White House John F. Kennedy is preparing his speech, in Cape Canaveral Apollo 11 is departing with a bang and a blast and in a small room in the capital of Great Britain, John Watson's life is changed forever.


End file.
